The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Why, no, honey. I don’t relish the attached strings.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t consider strings when you opted to travel the hard road as a single mother.’

  Oh, my, Francesca accorded wryly. Much more of this and there would be a cat-fight.

  ‘Annaliese, why don’t you hush your mouth before I do it for you?’ Cassandra queried silkily.

  ‘One hopes that’s an idle threat, darling. If not, let me warn that I wouldn’t hesitate to lay assault charges.’

  ‘Bitch,’ Cassandra muttered as soon as Annaliese vacated the changing room. ‘She likes to rattle my chain.’

  ‘It’s her favoured pastime,’ Francesca enlightened as she collected her garment bag and slung it over one shoulder. ‘I’m out of here.’ Her lips curved into a generous smile. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  As she emerged from backstage Anique snagged her arm and heaped ebullient praise for a job well done.

  Ever polite, Francesca paused to exchange a greeting with various women, some of whom she knew and others she did not. Consequently it seemed an age before she was able to escape into the main lobby and summon the valet to collect her car.

  ‘A message for you, ma’am.’

  Who? she queried silently as she took the envelope from the valet’s hand. ‘Thanks.’ She switched on her mobile phone and checked her voicemail, then she lifted the envelope flap and extracted a business card.

  Dominic Andrea’s business card, with a message Call me penned on the back above a series of digits. Francesca didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused, and slipped the card into her bag as she stepped through the automatic sliding doors to wait for her car.

  Within seconds it swept into the curved forecourt. The valet jumped out and held open the door as she slid in behind the wheel.

  It took longer than usual to reach her apartment, and once inside she tossed down her bag, slipped off her shoes, then padded barefoot into the kitchen for a cool drink.

  Ten minutes later she took the lift down to the ground floor and made her way towards the indoor pool.

  The soft, clear water relaxed her, easing the kinks from tired muscles as she stroked several laps, then she turned onto her back and allowed her body to drift with the movement of the water for a while before reversing her position.

  Employing a slow breaststroke, she made her way to the side and levered herself up onto the tiled edge. Water streamed off her body as she stood to her feet, and she caught up her towel and dealt with the excess moisture.

  It was almost five when she re-entered the apartment, and with automatic movements she crossed into the bedroom, entered the en suite bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Ten minutes later she pulled on a towelling robe and began blowdrying her hair, then she moved into the kitchen to prepare something light to eat.

  An omelette, she decided. Eaten in the lounge while watching television.

  The phone rang twice during the evening. Her mother suggesting lunch, and Gabbi issuing an invitation to the theatre.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARGO’S boutique was one of several in the exclusive Double Bay boulevard catering to the city’s rich and famous.

  An astute woman with a love of fashion, Margo had opened the boutique soon after her husband’s death in a bid to channel her energies into something constructive. Adhering to instinct, she stocked expensive designer originals that were classically elegant. Her window display held one mannequin, whose apparel was changed every day. A selection of bags were offered to complement designer shoes.

  Margo’s quarterly invitation-only fashion showings were offered to a valued clientele, with the request that they each bring a guest. Champagne and orange juice flowed, catered refreshments were served with coffee and tea. Margo offered a ten per cent reduction in price on everything in the shop and donated a further ten per cent of the day’s take to her favoured charity.

  A fondness for using fledgling unknown models had boosted the careers of several, a few of whom had gone on to achieve international recognition.

  Francesca had been one of them. Hence, if a visit home coincided with one of Margo’s showings, Francesca donated her services sans fee, out of respect and affection for a woman who gave far more to charity than was generally known, and who insisted such philanthrophic gestures were never reported in the press.

  Parking wasn’t a problem, and Francesca crossed the square at a brisk pace, dodging small puddles accumulated from an early-morning rainfall. An elegantly clad vendeuse stood at the door, welcoming guests and checking their invitations. Outside there was hired uniformed security.

  Collectively, the jewellery adorning fingers, wrists, necks and earlobes would amount to a small fortune.

  Francesca counted two Rolls-Royces and a Bentley lining the kerb, and three chauffeurs engaged in transferring their employers from car to pavement.

  The boutique’s air-conditioned interior provided a welcome contrast to the high humidity that threatened, according to the day’s forecast, to climb into the nineties.

  ‘Francesca.’ Margo’s greeting held warmth and genuine enthusiasm. ‘It’s so good to see you. Cassandra arrived a minute ago, and the three novices are already quaking out back.’

  A smile tugged the edges of her mouth. ‘Quaking?’

  Margo’s eyes held a musing sparkle. ‘Almost literally. And desperately in need of professional wisdom to help put them at ease.’

  Francesca thought back nine years to the time she had stood consumed by nerves in one of Margo’s changing rooms for the first time and doubted any words would make a difference.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I’m counting on it.’

  Francesca moved through the vestibule to the changing rooms, greeted Cassandra, the co-ordinator assigned to accessorise each outfit and detail their order of appearance, and smiled at the three girls whose expressions bore witness to a sense of awe and trepidation.

  They were so young. Humour was the only way to go, and her eyes assumed a mischievous sparkle. ‘You’ve forgotten everything Margo said, are convinced your limbs will freeze the instant you go out there, and, failing that, you’ll trip and fall flat on your face.’ Her mouth curved with impish wit. ‘Right? None of which is going to happen. Trust me.’

  Margo was an exemplary organiser, and with plenty of staff on hand the fashion showing began without a hitch. Champagne flowed, and the guests were receptive. Seating was arranged three deep in two opposing semi-circles.

  Francesca was first out, and she paused, executed a slow turn, then completed a round of the inner circle.

  It was as she turned back to the audience that she saw him. Dominic Andrea, attired in a formal business suit, blue shirt, navy tie. Looking, she noted wryly, very comfortable with his surroundings, and not at all daunted at being only one of three men present in a room filled with women.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  Francesca’s smile encompassed everyone and her eyes focused on no one in particular. Head held high, shoulders squared, she went through a familiar routine.

  Yet she was acutely aware of the darkly attractive man whose attention she sensed rather than saw, and she had to actively steel herself against the faint shivering sensation that spiralled the length of her spine.

  ‘What gives?’

  Francesca cast Cassandra a harried glance as she slid down the zip fastening and stepped out of a tailored skirt. ‘Be specific.’ She unbuttoned the blouse and discarded it, then reached for an elegant trouser suit.

  ‘There’s a man seated third row, centre,’ Cassandra declared as she donned tailored trousers and slid the zip in place, ‘who seems to be showing an intense interest in your every move.’

  As the morning progressed Francesca became increasingly aware of Dominic’s presence. And his attention.

  Why did she feel so exposed beneath his encompassing scrutiny? She hadn’t felt this... ‘Nervous’ wasn’t strictly accurate. She’d walked down too m
any catwalks, appeared at too many fashion showings to allow nerves to undermine professionalism.

  Aware. That about summed it up. Attuned to one person to such an infinite degree that you were able to sense every glance without seeing it. The tingle that feathered down her spine, the slight heaviness of her breasts as each nipple tightened, and the slow, soft curling sensation deep within.

  All this as a result of a few chance encounters with the man, a few shared hours in company of mutual friends over dinner, and the brush of his lips against her temple? It was crazy.

  Even more absurd was the feeling that she’d entered a one-way street from which there was no return.

  Wayward thoughts, she dismissed. Her life was pleasant, she had command of it, and memories of Mario filled her heart. What more did she need?

  Shared passion. A warm body to hold onto in the long night hours.

  Where had that come from?

  Fleeting pain darkened her eyes as guilt, remorse, anger tore at something deep inside, and for one split second she wanted to run and hide.

  Yet she did neither. Professionalism ensured she tilted her head a fraction higher, curved her lips to make her smile a little brighter, and she walked, turned, paused with the ease of long practice.

  Intimate, classy, successful, Francesca dubbed the event as it came to a close. Everyone bought. Garments, shoes, bags. Each was folded reverently in tissue paper and deposited into one of Margo’s stylish carrybags.

  Francesca pulled on an elegant Armani trouser suit, slid her feet into high-heeled pumps, then caught up her capacious carry-all and slid the wide strap over one shoulder.

  She entered the salon, saw the number of guests milling in groups, and took a steadying breath as she glimpsed Dominic deep in conversation with an attractive woman on the other side of the room.

  Why was he still here?

  Almost as if he sensed her glance, he raised his head and cast her a penetrating look, then returned his attention to the woman beside him.

  Shattering, Francesca perceived. The effect he had on her senses. She’d been supremely conscious of his scrutiny each time she’d circled the salon, and had managed to successfully ignore him.

  ‘Francesca.’

  He had the tread of a cat. Francesca turned slowly to face him. ‘Dominic,’ she acknowledged with due solemnity.

  His smile was warm, and his eyes held amusement as he took hold of her hand and lifted it to his lips.

  The touch was fleeting, yet she felt as if she’d been branded by fire. Heat flared through her veins, travelling a damning path. If he’d wanted to disconcert her, he’d succeeded.

  Potent sexuality at its most lethal, she thought shakily. Wielded by an infinitely dangerous man who, unless she was mistaken, would play the game by his own rules.

  He sensed the slight quiver of nervous awareness, felt the startled tightening of her fingers, and allowed her to pull free of him. For now.

  During the past hour he’d watched her display a variety of clothes, admired her body’s graceful movement, the tilt of her head, the warm generous smile.

  Outwardly cool, she schooled her features into a polite mask, and knew that she hadn’t fooled him in the slightest.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She wanted, needed to get away.

  ‘No.’

  The refusal startled her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘No,’ he repeated quietly.

  Francesca pitched her voice sufficiently low so that no one else could hear. ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  His gaze was steady. ‘At this precise moment?’

  She lifted one hand and let it fall to her side in angry resignation. ‘OK, let’s go with “this precise moment”.’

  A fleeting smile lightened his features, and she caught a glimpse of gleaming white teeth. ‘Inviting you to lunch.’

  Now it was her turn. ‘No.’

  His eyes gleamed with dark humour. ‘I could add persuasion and kiss you in front of Margo’s guests.’

  Her voice lowered to a furious whisper. ‘Do that, and I’ll hit you.’

  ‘It might be worth it to see you try.’ He didn’t give her time to think as he captured her face and lowered his head down to hers.

  It wasn’t a gentle touching of mouths, or a sensual tasting. Nor was it particularly brief.

  This was claim-staking. Possession. Erotic, evocative, and intensely sexual.

  Shock reverberated through her body, and she instinctively lifted her hands in an attempt to effect leverage against his chest.

  He eased the pressure a little, and she tore her mouth away from his.

  ‘You—’

  He stilled the flow of angry words by placing a finger against her lips. ‘Not here, unless you want to cause a scene.’

  Her eyes sparked with fury, and her mouth shook as she sought to gain some measure of control. She became aware of her surroundings, the salon’s occupants, and she wanted to verbally damn him as he took hold of her arm and led her outside.

  ‘You arrogant, egotistical fiend,’ Francesca accused the second they were alone.

  ‘You didn’t respond to my message, and with your telephone and mobile number ex-directory, your address unlisted, you left me no alternative.’ He didn’t add that he possessed sufficient influence to infiltrate the tight security screen she’d erected around her public and private persona.

  ‘You inveigled an invitation to Margo’s showing on that basis?’ Anger was very much to the fore, sharpening the gold flecks in her eyes, accentuating the tilt of her head, stiffening her stance. She wanted to rage at him with a torrent of words that would singe the hair on his head.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was an interesting experience.’

  ‘That’s all you have to say?’

  ‘It gave me the opportunity to watch you at work.’

  Being one of few men in a room filled with avid women fashion-followers couldn’t have held much appeal. ‘I hope you suffered!’

  Dark eyes gleamed, and his lips parted to form a quizzical smile. ‘Oh, I did, believe me.’

  Her chin lifted, and her eyes sparked furious fire. ‘What is it with you? Do I present a challenge or something?’

  Mockery was very much in evidence. ‘Or something.’

  It was a loaded statement, one that she refused to examine. ‘Let me make it quite clear.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  Francesca closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘You know my father. Gabbi and Benedict Nicols are mutual friends.’

  ‘What we share has nothing to do with your father, Gabbi or Benedict. Or anyone else for that matter.’

  Emotion clouded her features, fleeting and pain-filled. ‘We don’t share anything.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Dominic said quietly. ‘But we will.’ He cupped her cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along the length of her jaw. And didn’t miss the movement in her throat as she compulsively swallowed.

  Francesca glimpsed the deceptive indolence apparent in those deep eyes, the silent assurance of a man who knew what he wanted and would allow nothing to stand in his way. The knowledge tripped her pulse and made her heart beat faster. She had to put some distance between them.

  ‘Please let me go.’

  It was the ‘please’ that did it. He trailed his hand down her cheek, outlined her lips with the pad of one forefinger, then he dropped his hand down to his side as he offered a quizzical smile.

  ‘I guess we don’t get to eat together?’

  ‘I have to be in the city in half an hour.’ And lunch was going to be a salad sandwich and bottled water she’d pick up and eat along the way.

  ‘Another modelling assignment?’

  ‘A photographic shoot.’ She took one step back, another to the side. ‘I really must go.’

  Francesca turned and crossed the road. She could feel a distinct prickle of awareness between her shoul
derblades, and she was conscious of every step she took along the pavement.

  It was only when she was safely behind the wheel of her car that the tension began to ease, and by the time she reached the city Dominic was firmly expelled from her mind.

  The fashion shoot was exhausting, with the designer insisting the photographer do numerous takes from every conceivable angle. Accessories were changed countless times, her make-up touched and retouched, her hairstyle switched from loose and unruly to casually upswept, then confined in a sleek French pleat.

  ‘Anything planned tonight, darling? I’d like to move outdoors, capture you on a lonely beach against the backdrop of a fading sunset.’

  It was after six, and she was battling the onset of a headache. More than anything she wanted to step into her own clothes, climb into her car and drive back to her apartment. And sink into a spa and sip a long, cool drink, she added silently.

  As a photographer, Tony was a perfectionist. And she was sufficiently professional to want to work with rather than against him.

  ‘Are you going to allow me time to eat?’ she queried with resignation.

  ‘Of course, sweetie.’ His smile was quick, and his eyes held a humorous gleam. ‘I’m not an absolute monster.’

  ‘Although you’ll want me here early in the morning for dawn shots,’ Francesca accorded with cynicism.

  ‘How well you know me.’ There was a certain wryness evident. ‘But I’m the best.’

  Knowledge, not vanity. He won awards every year for his photographic skill, and harboured a genuine love for the camera. Able to combine subject and background to maximum effect on celluloid, and an exceptional strategist, he loathed temperament, lauded professionalism and went to any length to achieve the look he wanted.

  Together, they worked as a team, stowing clothes and equipment before adjourning to a nearby café for a meal eaten alfresco at a verandah table offering splendid views over a leafy green park.

  Afterwards they headed north in a small convoy of vehicles to a designated cove where a makeshift tent was erected in which Francesca could change.

  The cool breeze from the ocean whispered across her skin and lifted a few loose tendrils of hair as she moved at Tony’s bidding, providing one pose after another as he clicked off rolls of film.